Necropolis Rising

by Dave Jeffery

  She didn’t understand it, didn’t want to understand it, and O’Connell never really tried to enlighten her. On the few occasions, when she had made a token attempt to find out exactly why O’Connell was prepared to risk all for the likes of Stu Kunaka, he’d just say it was because of their friendship, the bond based on what they’d been through together during their days in the army.

  And as he’d said it Suzie saw no lies in those eyes of his; but suspected that the experiences her man had shared with Kunaka would have meant that O’Connell had been placed into a position where he felt he had to protect his friend, look after him.

  Save him.

  The one thing O’Connell wasn’t able to do for his brother, Chris.

  Dead Chris.

  “Hey, you with us, sister?”

  It was Kunaka.

  She blinked away her thoughts. “I’m with you,” she said; the biochem mask hiding her flushed cheeks. If Kunaka had any quip he held it back, his mind now firmly on the job. Suzie allowed a fleeting moment of respect for him pass through her then sent it on its way by checking her rifle.

  “Okay, everyone, listen up, O’Connell said to the row of biochem face plates. “Let’s go do our thing.”

  They moved in single file, crossing the plaza, O’Connell and Kunaka taking point, their Heckler and Koch machine pistols trained on the ominous black space of the foyer.

  As the group mounted the steps, they fanned out, Suzie and Clarke peeling left; the others to the right, flattening themselves against the walls either side of the entrance.

  O’Connell crouched and leaned around the door, activating the torch strapped underneath his weapon.

  The milky pool of light swept around the interior revealing a scene of destruction. The main reception area was awash with papers and shattered glass. The carcass of a computer terminal was upended, its keyboard trampled and keys strewn like black teeth.

  “If we haven’t got power, this gig is fucked,” Clarke hissed.

  “If it hasn’t, we’ll sort it,” Kunaka whispered his voice tight with annoyance. “Now button your lip, boy.”

  Clarke muttered something out of earshot. It wasn’t complimentary.

  “Suzie, Stu, cover me,” O’Connell said and inched through the doorway, remaining hunkered down, his weapon making broad sweeps of the area.

  A large reception desk lay off to his right and he headed for it, eager to ensure nothing was lurking behind its oak paneling.

  He reached the desk, his machine pistol rock steady; the upshot of years of military training. He made a mental count.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  He stood and aimed his weapon at any potential assailant. But the reception space was empty, save for a duo of overturned chairs.

  Satisfied, he headed back to the others.

  “This area’s secure,” he concluded. “Set up a perimeter. Amir, guard the access and if you see anything shoot first. You got me?”

  “I got you,” Amir said, turning his shot gun on the steps.

  At the reception desk, Clarke pulled a Micro Soft notebook from his pocket and fired it up. Once the desk top came online he accessed a file titled Hansel and Gretel and within seconds the team were looking at schematics for the NICDD building; provided by their inside man after a year of meticulous research.

  Corridors were marked by a series of white lines, and, based upon the information gleaned from their spy Clarke had marked all the computer terminal access points with red VDU markers. It was never his intention to use these markers himself but he was obsessed with detail; part of this was down to personality, part of it was the natural requirement of a computer programmer. One co-sign or digit could mean the difference between a successful piece of software and a bug-infested piece of junk in fancy packaging.

  “The nearest access terminal is on the first floor,” Clarke said scrutinizing the screen. “There’s an office three doors down from the stairwell.”

  “How far to the stairs?” O’Connell asked.

  “I’d say no more than a hundred metres off the reception area,” Kunaka said. “Plenty of offices in between us and the stairs though. Anything could be in ’em.”

  “You and Clarke are with me,” O’Connell said to Kunaka, who nodded as if this were a given.

  Clarke said nothing despite his reservations. He was scared, but he was close to achieving his dream. Not even his fear could get in the way of that, he simply wouldn’t allow it.

  O’Connell made his way back to the entrance where Suzie and Amir held vigil over the plaza.

  “Anything?”

  “You hear us shooting?” Amir asked.

  “No.”

  “Then there ain’t anything,” he smiled.

  O’Connell nodded and returned his smile.

  “I want to thank you, O’Connell,” Amir said unexpectedly.

  “For what?”

  “For still bringing me along on this job,” Amir explained. “You hardly needed my skills to gain access to this place, right?”

  “Why wouldn't I?” O'Connell countered. “Who could’ve planned for this kind of thing? Not your run-of-the-mill fuck up, is it?”

  “I guess not,” Amir admitted.

  “Besides,” O'Connell added, “if you hadn’t been there with Suzie, I’d have never got to Kunaka. You’ve earned your place in this mess, Amir. Don’t sweat it.”

  “Then I guess I won’t.” The grin was back on Amir’s face, lightening his dark eyes.

  “We’re moving into the building,” O’Connell said to Suzie. “Hold the fort for me?”

  “You guys be careful,” she replied. He knew what she meant. You be careful.

  “We will. We’ll stay in radio contact, okay?”

  She nodded and he put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Suzie, I -” he began but she cut him off.

  “I know. And you know, right? Now get the hell out of here.”

  His turn to nod now. He gave her a wink and then turned away.

  “Okay guys,” he said to Kunaka and Clarke. “Let’s go get our money.”

  ***

  Despite the best efforts of those employed to keep their population under control, their number continued to grow; their resilience to trap and poison testament to their ability to adapt and maintain their kind.

  Until now.

  The Lazarus Initiative had succeeded in a way that no other pest control strategy could ever hope to achieve. In the space of one hour the twenty thousand strong communities of rats in the Birmingham sewer network were dead; lying piled and inert in the service tunnels and relaying pipe network.

  But, like so many of their human counterparts who had succumbed to Whittington’s scientific catastrophe, their death was to be only a temporary measure.

  ***

  Alpha team moved at pace through the tunnel’s narrow confines, their torches throwing crazy shadows about the curved, greasy walls. His boots filling with vile slurry, not even Honeyman had any quip to lighten the mood.

  Shipman held up his hand and the unit came to a halt, their footfalls continuing for a few more seconds as a ghostly echo.

  “Bearing’s check,” he said, his muffled voice bouncing off after the fading footsteps.

  “We’re less than a quarter of a mile away, Sir,” Keene said his eyes flitting over the screen of his PDA. “This tunnel will pan to the left after three hundred metres, then there’s a tributary branching into three access points. One of these will bring us out at our target zone.”

  “Okay,” Shipman said. “Move out.”

  Running again the team continued their steady speed and showing no sign of fatigue. They were focused, determined to conclude their mission with nothing but total and utter success.

  Yet one of their number had an agenda that was quite different to the others. Sometime soon that agenda would have to take precedent.

  But by that time it would be far too late for the rest of Alpha Team to do anything abo
ut it.

  ***

  Primordial instincts are guiding them but something is wrong. They used to sense things, fear things, driven to dark corners in order to protect themselves. To stay alive.

  Their eyes are no longer dark black apertures, sucking in any nuance of light. They are now guided by something very different. Now only hunger drives them, and their appetites, their tastes, have become more selective. Nothing short of flesh will do; warm flesh, moistened by the blood of a still beating, still living heart.

  And in their heads, in their small intuitive brains, they can hear four large hearts thumping nearby, pounding like a cacophony of drums, driving them, and guiding them towards their feast.

  ***

  “You hear that?” Bringing up the rear, Connors turned to scan the tunnel behind him. The sound coming towards him was oddly familiar but there was something about it, something wrong. It felt as though it was multi-layered, distorted, as though coming to him through water.

  From the gloom, in the grey twilight beyond the range of his torch, he thought he saw something moving; a seething, writhing mass moving at frightening speed.

  “Shit!” Connors yelled. “We got rats, incoming! Hundreds of ’em!”

  “Easy, Connors,” Honeyman said. “They’re honin’ in on your after shave, man.”

  “I’m not kiddin’ here,” Connors said. And at that moment he realised that the familiar, yet not so familiar sound was many, many rat voices, tiny squeaks that were no longer high pitched and terrified but much lower, a long, thick cough. Then a mind numbing, sickening understanding overcame Connors.

  The rats were moaning.

  “Oh Jesus H!” Connors yelled. “They’re fuckin’ infected!”

  Coupled with the ungodly noise rushing ahead of these awful creatures, Honeyman suddenly got it.

  “Honeyman - grenades!” Shipman ordered. But, in his mind, there was the dreadful thought that this response may have been too little, too late.

  ***

  13

  “Sorry I lost it, man,” Kunaka said to O’Connell, his eyes ahead and his voice low.

  They were moving cautiously through the corridor leading to the stairs, stepping over scattered office debris. A dreadful storm had passed through there not too long ago and it had left its mark. Windows were smashed, chairs and tables scattered and overturned. But there were no bodies or blood to be seen.

  “Forget it,” O’Connell said and he meant it.

  But Kunaka wasn’t ready to let it go. “You have a habit of trying to bail me out.”

  “Yeah, but sometimes it doesn’t always go according to plan, does it?” O’Connell recalled. “Maybe we should talk about it over a cold one some day.”

  “Let’s do it now,” Kunaka whispered. And O’Connell could see that Kunaka wanted some normalcy injected into his day, something to keep the werewolves from the door. Something to keep him in the here and now and not back in that place he’d stumbled across in the Mastiff, a place where Voodoo sorcerers talked of atonement.

  “I agreed to let you do it,” Kunaka continued firmly. “I don’t blame you for what happened with Wiggets.”

  Blame.

  That was a word, wasn’t it? How many times had that noun pervaded the life and love of Kevin O’Connell? Too many times, too many instances where the beast blame had influenced his actions; moulding his decisions into its own image.

  It had started with Chris, hadn’t it? Of course it had. Chris: his little brother. Last seen when, exactly? Oh, yes that last image of his small, frightened face, staring up from the brown churning waters of a Blue Circle Incorporated quarry pit. A place they should never have been, a place where two other kids had died in the space of four years. And Chris had gone to play hide and seek with them at the bottom of the murky water as his big brother knelt screaming his name over and over by the side of the shit coloured lake, clinging to the ‘Danger! No Swimming!’ sign.

  Yes it had started there, even though everyone said that he wasn’t to blame, that maybe, if his parents had invested less time in snooker rooms and bingo halls and not left two boys to fend for themselves on a regular basis, things may have been different. It was about being responsible - accountable - in the end. Oh, they said these things but O’Connell saw that the level of conviction never quite made it to their eyes, not his parents, not the social workers, not the police.

  And, just as the need for consistency and security had driven him into the army, so the burning need to protect those he cared for came along for the ride. But not content to be sitting quietly in the back seat, it jumped up front, taking over driving duties until the tank ran out. But it was a long, long road and the fuel gauge never entered the red zone.

  So, years later, when he’d said to Kunaka that he would lie to support him in nailing the murdering scumbag of an officer, blame had pulled a few strings and made him dance. He couldn’t sit by and helplessly watch his brother sinking into that murky pit any more. He had to protect. He had to be responsible.

  The report went in: an attempted rape and murder of a seventeen year old Serbian girl by a British Officer. With two marines as witnesses to the shooting. Cut and dried.

  Or so it seemed.

  Within three days the case was dropped. O’Connell and Kunaka were visited by a Colonel who questioned their credibility as witnesses, given that there were reports of a history of bad blood between them and the officer in question. And then there was the “evidence” found in the home of Jasna Maric implicating her as a Croatian sleeper. With this unspecified “evidence” clearing Wigget’s of any wrong doing the marine’s behaviour and more importantly their motive was subsequently called into question. And the upshot was a “Conduct Unbecoming” charge which was upheld in the subsequent - and rapid - court martial.

  So, after ten years of loyal service, O’Connell and Kunaka had “DD” stamped on their file and no chance of work in the traditional post-military areas: police, emergency services, the security sector.

  Instead they became anti-security consultants, their skills readily sought by those who knew quality work and the rest sort of followed on from there.

  “I hate to interrupt this sort of bonding thing you guys are having here,” Clarke said from behind them, “but I think you should know I can hear something.”

  The group stopped and listened intently for a few seconds. O’Connell was about to say something when a faint, dull dragging noise came from over their heads.

  “Something being hauled across the floor?” Kunaka suggested. “Barricade, maybe?”

  “Let’s see,” O’Connell replied, his eyes still scanning the ceiling.

  The stairs were carpeted so their approach was easily masked. Once they had reached the door opening out onto the first floor O’Connell told Clarke to stay back. The youth didn’t need telling twice, skulking in the shadows and clutching his rifle to him as though it were a small child.

  “Try not to shoot us, brain box,” Kunaka warned as he disappeared through the door.

  The first things O’Connell picked up in his torch beam were the dark splashes on the walls. And the ceiling.

  Blood.

  “O’Connell,” Kunaka hissed. “Two O’clock - check it out.”

  Up ahead, to the right, an office door was ajar and sticking out from it was an arm. It was bare and slim, rendered stark in the light from their torches, the rings on the fingers: a mesmerizing twinkle.

  Kunaka spotted something else. “Hey, the fingers are moving. They’re still alive!”

  And suddenly he was rushing down the corridor, his instincts taking over.

  “Stu!” O’Connell barked. “Wait a minute!”

  Kunaka got to the door and nudged it open, his gun ready but his mind focused on the shivering limb and its owner.

  But, to his horror, Stu was to discover that at this moment in time the arm didn’t have an owner, it had been severed just below the elbow; the soft tissue ragged and dark with congealed blood. Yet it co
ntinued to move blindly, the fingers digging into the carpet, pulling its cylinder of flesh behind it.

  Someone loomed forwards out of the shadows. A woman, eyes vacant, face smeared with gore, one arm missing just below the elbow. She lunged at Kunaka before he had time to recoil.

  “Shit!”

  “Kunaka, get clear!” O’Connell yelled. “I can’t get a shot.”

  “Jesus, she’s fuckin’ strong,” Kunaka gasped trying to push the zombie away from him. He grabbed her by the hair, trying to yank those teeth away from him. But to his disgust she merely hauled her head forwards, with the purring sound hair ripping from the scalp, and suddenly her mouth was about his throat and closing over his larynx. Searing pain as he felt muscle tear, he felt her teeth grating against his oesophagus and the warm wetness cascading down the front of his tunic.

  He tried to cry out but with his throat gone, only a weak gurgling hiss came. The female zombie was still embedded in his throat as Kunaka collapsed and O’Connell opened her head with two rounds from his weapon.

  By the time he’d pulled her carcass off and held onto his friend, O’Connell knew that he was too late.

  ***

  Phut! Phut! Phut! Phut!

  Under the city streets, four grenade launchers fired in quick succession.

  It was a dull sound, a small thing compared to the detonations that ensued. The walls cracked, imploding as their structures weakened in the blasts, huge chunks of concrete folding, and tumbling inwards under the weight of the earth behind it.

  It stopped most of the rodent horde charging towards Alpha Team, thousands of tiny screams trapped behind a wall of dirt and rock. But some still got through, their speed carrying them onwards ahead of the cave in. And there were still enough to overwhelm their prey; a few hundred at least. There were many but they all had one single minded goal.

  To feed.

  “The tunnel won’t take another blast like that,” Shipman shouted, his ears still ringing from the explosions. “We have to move, get to higher ground.”